Wednesday, June 02, 2004
I thought I'd seen anger
Really, you haven't seen impotent rage until you've seen someone who double-majored in computer science and physics, earning bachelor's degrees in both, then served his country in the Air Force for five years, told that he probably wouldn't get a menial retail job because "she" doesn't have a high-school diploma. Telling Carter that he could probably ace the GED test in his sleep didn't help; while he's not stupid and recognizes the need to take that test on a practical level, it's deeply humiliating.
And it went downhill from there. As soon as he got that bit of news, he was on the phone the the FBI right away, demanding to talk to Special Agent Jones or anyone who knew what our situation was. When Khalil Jones finally called back today, Carter asked if there were some way the FBI could get us new identities, like witness protection. It's possible, he said, but time-consuming - the Attorney General's office would have to get involved, which would mean letting more people in on this sensitive information (Carter looked a little less excited at that). He also pointed out that Witness Protection is meant for witnesses whose involvement with a case was more or less complete, and that the two of us are involved in an ongoing investigation. The system is not set up to handle that, and Khalil doesn't have the authority to set up a sort of parallel system for what is, as far as we know, five people, one of whom is in a coma, one of whom is a fugitive, and one of whom Interpol is having trouble locating.
Agent Jones said that he wants to help us out, but points out that if we receive anything from the DOJ, it could come back to bite us later when they catch Dmitri's supplier. The agents who know about us are racking their brains to find some way to help us out without compromising the investigation, but...
So Carter was even more frustrated when he hung up the phone. He asked if Doug had gotten anywhere on finding a way for us to reclaim our old identities, or at least credentials, and when I said not very far, he asked what I was fucking him for. I tried to point out that I wasn't, but he just said he needed to let out some steam and went for a run.
And to add insult to injury, by the time he got back, I'd gotten a phone call saying I was hired. It's a measly waitress/hostess job, but the base salary is almost minimum wage (yes, we're in small favors territory here). Carter made a crack about how much I could augment that with a low-cut top, and I said damn right. We need the money, and if my breasts want the soft brassieres, they'd better earn their keep. Besides, it'll leave my days open most of the time, so if I can find an office job, we might make enough money to upgrade our living quarters a bit.
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